


Blood Ties

by MiNamisEphe



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, BAMF Bilbo Baggins, Betrayal, Erebor, Everybody Lives, Hobbits, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:29:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23330158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiNamisEphe/pseuds/MiNamisEphe
Summary: Hobbits have been wiped from existence- all except one.At the cost of his mother's life, Bilbo has been spared.Now, he must leave the only home he has ever known in an effort to strengthen the ties between Erebor and the Iron Hills. As Dáin II Ironfoot's adopted son, and only kin, Bilbo must enter a political marriage with Thorin, son of Thráin II, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain.But, blood is not always thicker than the thrall of power, and not all history is written with pure intent.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44





	1. Ainâla

**Author's Note:**

> Does the story look familiar? Probably. Was it adopted? No it was not.
> 
> Is the author an absolute idiot, who cannot remember her password for her account, and no longer has access to her email to reset it? Why yes, you are correct.
> 
> Please accept my sincere apologies for the much delayed second chapter of the story. I will be posting the first chapter, since I am posting from a new account, and will continue posting here. Expect the second chapter to be posted later tonight. 
> 
> I figure, I should do something productive with the ample amount of time this quarantine has given me.
> 
> Please note that the original first chapter was edited, but there have been changes made to it, and I do not have a current beta reader. If you’re interested, feel free to reach out!

_“Roads go ever ever on,  
Over rock and under tree,  
By caves where never sun has shone,  
By streams that never find the sea;  
Over snow by winter sown,  
And through the merry flowers of June,  
Over grass and over stone,  
And under mountains of the moon._

Roads go ever ever on  
Under cloud and under star,  
Yet feet that wandering have gone  
Turn at last to home afar.  
Eyes that fire and sword have seen  
And horror in the halls of stone  
Look at last on meadows green  
And trees and hills they long have known.”

-J.R.R. Tolkien (The Hobbit)- __

____

____

.

“Focus,” Dáin demanded, pushing further into Bilbo’s space.

Bilbo could feel Dáin’s hot breath fanning out across his cheek, slow and steady. He showed no outward sign of fatigue as he chided Bilbo, merely adjusted the grip on his sword while he edged back. Bilbo could scarcely hear over the sound of his own heavy panting. He tried to gather himself in the space he’d been allowed. The hilts of his daggers shifted in his grasp, slick with sweat to match the thin layer covering his skin.

The trembling in his hands grew worse. His exhaustion was becoming harder to control and harder to hide, a vulnerability bared in plain sight of his opponent. One he knew Dáin could take full advantage of.

Bilbo raised his blades again, locking them together high above his head, just in time to block the swift downward strike that rushed upon him. Its force nearly brought him to his knees, solid and deft as it was, but Bilbo adjusted his stance quickly, spreading his feet further apart to bear the attack. His arms and legs screamed in protest, but Bilbo held his ground.

Swallowing under the immense strain, Bilbo twisted out from beneath Dáin’s thick, heavy blade. The edges of sword and dagger glided across each other- a shrill sound of clashing steel that vibrated deep in Bilbo’s bones. His muscles sang in relief at his escape as the weight of his opponent’s power and dense weaponry vanished.

“It must be nearing nightfall,” Bilbo sighed out between long drags of air.

It was the only indication of defeat that Bilbo was willing to risk- just a subtle implication of their particularly drawn out training session. He’d been woken before first light to a thundering rap on his door and the familiar sound of Dáin Ironfoot’s voice floating through the gaps between wood and stone. Which, in itself, was not very unusual, but the extent of their arduous training today certainly was.

“Indeed.”

Dáin’s short, uncaring response had Bilbo huffing in barely concealed irritation. He considered retaliating, unleashing an attack of his own, but the soreness in his limbs protested at the mere thought. Instead, Bilbo kept his footing light, readjusting to block each of Dáin’s strikes in a useless attempt to conserve some of his energy.

Bilbo looked over the dwarf, searching for any sign of vulnerability, even the smallest lapse in concentration or strength. It seemed a hopeless effort against the layers of hard armor and Dáin’s ever-sturdy stance. Bilbo could scarcely find any flaws on a good day, with a clear mind and sharp set of eyes. The task was significantly more difficult, impossible even, with the haze of fatigue clouding over him. For a moment, he considered accepting the loss- throwing down his daggers and announcing his withdrawal. But, defeat was not something Bilbo had been taught to receive lightly, or at all, for that matter.

Bilbo had hesitated for too long. Dáin drove towards him again with an impatient growl, bending low to strike out at Bilbo’s feet. It was a wise move; with Bilbo’s short blades and heavy dependency on footwork, it seemed a reliable maneuver. But, the crouched position called for both the element of speed and surprise. Dáin only had surprise on his side, and not quite enough of it to successfully swipe Bilbo’s feet out from under him.

Bilbo followed the movements easily, waiting until Dáin shifted closer as he spun into the attack. Bilbo stilled for three counts before he jumped. And then there was only air beneath his feet and the brief swipe of Dáin’s sword as it missed its mark. As soon as his feet touched back on the ground, Bilbo lifted both daggers, carefully resting the point of one to the back of Dáin’s neck and the other just below his bearded jaw.

Bilbo’s chest was heaving, heart beating wildly with the sudden rush of strength.

“Is something wrong, Lord Dáin?” Bilbo asked uneasily, keeping his hands locked in place, but careful not to let the blades break skin. Up close, Bilbo could see the stiffness of Dáin’s form- rigid and straight where he was usually slack with confidence. His lips were pressed tightly together, thinning out in response to Bilbo’s concern.

When Dáin made no effort to speak, Bilbo chanced a bit of force into his grip, pressing one dagger’s sharp edge to the sensitive flesh of Dáin’s jugular.

“Mind your manners.” Dáin snapped, keeping his voice level despite his disapproving scowl.

“My apologies, Lord Dáin.”

Bilbo dipped his head in apology, sliding back to a more respectable distance. Tired as he was, Bilbo knew better than to fan the flame of his master’s fury; rare as Dáin’s temper was. .

The added space gave Dáin room enough to stand, his movements fluid and effortless, completely unaffected by the bulk of his body, made worse by his heavy armor. There was something so unusual in the way Dáin moved about, distinct and unlike the rest of his kind. Dwarves, stout and able-bodied, took to heavy swings and rough, jerky motions that matched their strength and size, though Dáin seemed in favor of a quick, light foot.

Bilbo liked to think it was the influence of their sparring matches; Dáin’s way of countering the unfamiliar fighting style that Bilbo found most comfortable. So much of Bilbo, of his habits, skill and even of himself, were influenced greatly by his guardian. From the hard leather boots (made custom to fit his large feet), loose-fitted tunics with beautifully stitched designs, and an ever-present hunger for both food and improvement of skill on the battlefield. Dáin was the closest to kin Bilbo had ever known, and, as such, he had inherited dwarven culture and customs with relative ease and equal willingness.

Though he dare not say so, Bilbo’s heart was warmed by the knowledge that their closeness may not have left Dáin unaffected, either.

So caught up in his own thoughts, Bilbo barely noticed the faint sound of heavy breathing and the echoing thumps of leather and iron across stone. His ears twitched, body shifting toward slightly towards the doors behind him. Dáin, familiar with Bilbo’s keen sense of hearing, stood and looked past him to the doors just as they creaked open, banging carelessly against the walls on either side.

From the corner of his eye, Bilbo could make out the hunched over form of Dáin’s scribe, Kinod, red-faced and shining with a thin layer of sweat.

Curiosity crawled beneath his skin, but Bilbo could do nothing more than bite his tongue and turn his head to quell the unwelcome questions catching in his throat. He was a curious being by nature, but the secretiveness of dwarves had only ever brought him frustration and punishment everytime he pried.

“Shall we stop here for the day?” Bilbo suggested, trying- and failing- to hide the bit of hope that leaked into his voice.

Dáin did not answer immediately, sheathing his sword with a grunt and turning toward Kinod. If the young dwarf’s flustered appearance took Dáin by surprise, he did not show it, sparing only a moment to consider Kinod’s sudden arrival before beckoning him forward.

Dáin nodded to Bilbo. “Yes. Go to your rooms.”

Bilbo passed one last questioning gaze over his master, noting the way Dáin was focused so intently on Kinod, rapt attention humming between them. The tension of their coming conversation was palpable, silenced only by Bilbo’s unwelcome presence.

“Be sure to sharpen your nad ithrun,” Dáin reminded Bilbo, without so much as a glance in his direction.

“Yes, my Lord,” he assured him.

Bilbo offered a quick bow of his head as he slipped from the training room. He dragged the doors close behind with a heavy thud, effectively cloaking him in the silence of the halls. With a long sigh, Bilbo made his way through the maze of long tunnels and bridges.

The tunnels were nearly empty, with the exception of few dwarrows; as sour-faced and wary of Bilbo’s presence as when he first learned to understand his own undesirability. He kept his head down and his pace swift, nodding respectively despite their obvious disapproval. Familiar as it was, their rejection was simply an unavoidable aspect of Bilbo’s existence now. The loneliness and insecurity he’d once felt as a small child had quickly been outgrown.

Though, there were few that Bilbo could call friend, despite the lack of affection offered in the Iron Hills. He did not complain, nor pity himself for lacking; he was grateful for what he had and would ask no more.

Bilbo’s thoughts drifted to that of a warm fire and a cozy bed, putting his mind at ease and his pace a little quicker. He doubted he’d seen the last of Dáin for the night and he wanted to dedicate any time he had for himself to resting and, of he could keep his eyes open, a bit of light reading.

Yet, there was an unnerving feeling settling heavily in the pit of his stomach, one that first arose as Bilbo woke early that morning, that he couldn’t rid himself of.

Bilbo reached his room with a relieved sigh, discarding his boots, weapons and outer layers neatly by the door. He used a rag and a small pail of water in the corner of his room to wipe the worst of his grime away from his face, neck and arms. Feeling significantly cleaner, and more at ease in the safety of his room, Bilbo grabbed a small stack of scrolls and books, depositing them on the floor by the fire.

He was normally more than happy to lose himself in a good book, or pore over new maps and scrolls that were brought into the Iron Hills’ library. They were his only connection to the rest of the world, to all of Middle Earth outside of Dáin’s dominion. He struggled to focus as his mind stubbornly drifted back to Kinod’s sudden arrival in the training room.

Finding it impossible to concentrate on any of his texts, Bilbo collected his daggers and the small sharpening stone by the fire. The sound of steel scraping across stone was comforting, lulling almost, as were the practiced motions of his hands. He worked slowly, forcing himself to be patient, as he had so many times before.

When his blades were sharpened and polished to their very best, Bilbo was finally calm enough to thumb through a book on herbs and ancient healing techniques.

It was well past nightfall when Dáin finally came to him, Bilbo could tell from the upset groaning of his empty stomach. He’d gone the whole day without eating, but, somehow, it seemed such an insignificant thing. When the knock sounded at his door, Bilbo could feel his skin turning to goose flesh. He rose slowly, a greeting on the tip of his tongue, as Dáin entered on his own accord, wearing his usual, unreadable expression.

“What is it?” Bilbo asked hastily, knotting his fingers together to quell their shaking.

“Calm yourself,” Dáin replied gruffly, clasping Bilbo’s slight shoulder under his much larger hands. “You must know that this matter is one of haste. We have very little time to see this through.”

Bilbo nodded readily.

Dáin did not seem pleased by the eager notion, narrowing his eyes until Bilbo stilled under the disappointment in his gaze. The silence continued on, and, though Bilbo itched for even the smallest bit of information, he waited patiently, with tightly fisted-hands and his tongue clamped firmly between his teeth.

“It is time.”

Bilbo did need not ask any further. Those three simple, yet telling words were all Dáin need say.

Years had passed- long, hard and lonely, but they had led to this, to the height of Bilbo’s existence and worth; a test of his determination and loyalty to his people, the people who had died in vein, the peaceful creatures he’d only known in ink and word of mouth.

In the end, Bilbo was all that was left of his race. Young and defenseless, in the dying arms of his mother- a creature he could no longer call to memory, save for his own reflection.

More importantly, he owed this to his savior. To the only kin he’d ever known, Dáin.

“The company awaits you. Your journey will start under the cover of nightfall. The less who know of your journey, the better. Prepare quickly.”

Bilbo nodded again, his voice suddenly lost, unable to convey the extent of his willingness. He did not mention the pack tucked snugly beneath his bed, nor his favorite pair of short swords lopped through its straps.

He was prepared, had been for as long as he could remember.

Dáin stayed a few moments more, his grip constricting then loosening, then tightening again along the tops of Bilbo’s shoulders. Bilbo was too anxious to appreciate the sentiment, leaning forward on instinct alone when Dáin’s forehead came to rest against his own.

“Remember what I’ve taught you. Do not forget the importance of your goal,” Dáin reminded softly, always with a varying amount of coarseness in his voice.

“I will not forget,” Bilbo responded confidently. How could he?

“You will bring great honor to the memory of your people, Bilbo.”

Bilbo’s eyes slipped shut on their own accord, a rush of warmth spreading through his body at the rare use of his name, and, with it, came the realization of their long parting. They would see each other again, of that Bilbo was sure, but how long before then, he did not know.

“And if I fail?” he asked hesitantly, not truly fearing the risk, but curious of the answer.

“Failure is not an option.” Dáin pulled away, the affection of caretaker and teacher all but disappearing from his expression, replaced by the stern assurance of Lord of the Iron Hills.

.  
.  
.

As promised, the company awaited Bilbo just outside the main tunnel entrance, mounted and ready for the journey ahead. The sun had long since set and given way to a starlit darkness, obscured only by the thick, surrounding patches of trees. The group was small by Dáin’s standards; just a handful of his most trusted guards. Quiet and unapproachable as they were, Bilbo knew their loyalty spoke well enough in place of their silence.

Bilbo found the only riderless pony of the lot, saddled and snuffing at the dirt path away from the rest of the group. Bilbo smiled as he approached.

“Urkhas,” he whispered fondly. The dark stallion pony tossed his head in greeting, nickering softly as Bilbo rubbed along his neck.

Demon, the dwarves all called the pony. He’d been found as a colt, grazing near the rotting bodies of his herd, slain by wargs, no doubt. Traders had brought him through the Iron Hills, desperate to be rid of the poor beast who was far too wild to tame, with a vicious bite to boot.

As all hope seemed lost for the orphaned pony, the dwarves saw no use but to put a knife to his neck.

And that was how Bilbo had found him, moments from death and no less violent under its threat. He’d run out from his hiding place behind Dáin, shouting at the dwarves as they tried to hold the pony still.

Animals had a sixth sense, Dáin once told him. They could sense the intentions and the emotions of their masters and it was what made them loyal, or no. It was love at first sight, some would say. With that in mind, Bilbo had fearlessly latched himself onto the broken soul. Urkhas had been no less taken with the hobbit, gentled by his mercy and constant affection.

Bilbo let his pack slip from his shoulder, quickly securing it to the back of his saddle before arranging himself atop Urkhas with practiced ease. He nudged the stallion on to keep pace, keenly aware of the dwarf waiting to take up the rear of the company.

He had expected a mostly quiet journey, without overly friendly companions to be spoken of. So, Bilbo was surprised when one dwarf slowed his pony to walk beside the hobbit, pulling back his wool hood to reveal a shy, but familiar, smile.

“Kinod!” Bilbo allowed his excitement to carry him away for a moment. His lips curved, cheeks burning with genuine happiness. “I did not expect to see you.”

“I convinced Master Dáin to let me accompany you,” he responded, his smile growing. “Couldn’t let you make the journey alone with this unsociable lot.”

Bilbo laughed. “How long do you plan to stay in Erebor?” He asked.

Kinod looked away with a flush of pink across his cheeks. “As long as you need me, I suppose. Master Dáin asked that I help you settle in nicely. ‘It is no small thing’, he told me, getting married to a king, that is.”

Bilbo swallowed, following Kinod’s gaze to the dark, rocky path ahead.

“No, it is not,” he agreed, “but I’ll manage.”

“I have no doubt, Bilbo. No doubt.” Kinod smiled again. This time it was one of comfort and sureness, and Bilbo could swear there was a bit of Dáin’s conviction in Kinod’s agreement.

The first leg of the journey was, for the most part, uneventful.

Though, the weather changed often and drastically. The sharp drops in temperature was like nothing Bilbo had ever experienced, and something his body refused to adapt to. More than once, Kinod offered him an extra hide, but each time, Bilbo refused. He knew darrows to be exceptionally warm and quite immune to unexpected temperature fluctuations.

Still, the thought of taking what little Kinod has brought for himself, would offer no small amount of guilt on Bilbo’s conscious, so he respectfully refused, ignoring the looks of concern from Kinod and the inquisitive glances from the remaining guard.  
The shaking grew less violent as the nights wore on.

Though Bilbo had studied the maps of Middle Earth countless times, traced the tip of his finger along the short expanse of parchment between Erebor and the Iron Hills, it had left much to his imagination. To see the land laid out before him, was breathtaking in all its infinite glory. So much life laid just outside the high peak of hills that surrounded their small villages and vast underground territory- life that Bilbo had long waited to see for himself.

The extent of Bilbo’s youthful explorations had been limited to the flat lands at the base of the Iron Hills themselves- a natural wall of protection that towered over Bilbo’s small height and pulled at the heart of his curiosity, his yearning for freedom. Dáin had been nothing, if not exceptionally careful, when the young hobbit’s well-being was concerned. As such, Bilbo very rarely pushed the boundaries his master set for him, finding that an angered, unheeded dwarf was more frightening than he was inclined to evoke.

The memory of Dáin’s wrath when Kinob and a group of his guard had found Bilbo, sleeping beside the thick trunk of an old tree, well outside the borders he was allowed, had all but shattered any adventurous thoughts Bilbo may have harbored. Though, now, in the presence of such unrestrained wild and an extraordinary change in his surroundings, Bilbo found that his appetite for adventure was returning with a vengeance.

The journey was made longer by their refusal to cross any known Eleven territories or outposts. Bilbo was slightly disappointed that he wouldn’t get the chance to meet any Elves, though he’d never admit it in the presence of the company. They all thought him too curious about other races as it was.

As it would turn out, their stubbornness was something of a blessing in disguise. It prolonged their quest and broadened Bilbo’s explorations. From time to time, they had little choice but to travel through smaller human settlements to send word to Erebor and the Iron Hills of their progress. Communication with Ravens was a great deal faster when the company’s whereabouts were easy for them to locate. These were the days Bilbo looked forward to most.

The first time they approached a village, Kinod spoke briefly with other members of the company before returning to Bilbo’s side, dragging the hobbit’s hood up over his head with an apologetic pat to his cheek. Kinod then reached into one of his packs, pulling out a red, knitted scarf that he offered to Bilbo.

“Sorry, Bilbo, but it’s for the best. You would draw far too much attention,” Kinod told him.

Bilbo said nothing, only nodded in understanding as he tucked the scarf around the lower half of his face, securing it at the base of his neck. He supposed it would be awfully hard to explain the presence of a hobbit in the company of dwarves, and Bilbo was not entirely sure any of Middle Earth knew of his existence, let alone the significance of their journey.

The disguise, of sorts, did little to abate Bilbo's curiosity.

After spending so much of his time confined within the borders of the Iron Hills, surrounded by dwarves, riding through the tiny towns was quite an experience for Bilbo. Men, especially, he found to be quite fascinating. They wore their age and ailment so plainly about their persons, and their emotions so openly on their faces. They seemed wary of the company’s presence, though not in the same way dwarves regarded outsiders. Rather, there was a sense of fearful curiosity, an irate interest that drew them near.

On one particular night, the company had made camp not far from a human settlement where they’d spent the day waiting for word of safe passage from the ravens of Erebor. Bilbo had laid his bedroll close to the edge of camp, away from his companions. Kinod had called after him, watching Bilbo from his place by the fire. Bilbo often stuck as close to Kinod as he could to keep warm through the biting, evening winds.

But, on this night, Bilbo’s eager inquisitiveness overwhelmed any sense of self-preservation- the sounds that traveled from the village were all too enticing. He’d tucked his knees up to his chest, huddled deep inside his bedding, and titled his head to let the far-off sounds of bright music and cheerful shouts dance around in his head.

Bilbo had never seen, nor heard, the dwarves of the Iron Hills so happy, not like this. Of course, as with any dwarf, they were happiest within the throws of their craft. The sprightly sort of celebrations that men seemed so inclined to, they were something else entirely.

Bilbo wondered if the the dwarves of Erebor were familiar with such lighthearted festivities. Maybe, they were much different than their kin in the east. Bilbo knew he shouldn’t feel so thrilled at the possibility. It meant nothing to Dáin's cause, and so it should mean nothing to him, either.

With a sigh, Bilbo turned over, tugging his blanket up to his chin to keep out the cold. Stubbornly, he remained on the outskirts of camp, ears twitching at steady beat of music that echoed in from across the plains. If Dáin could see into his mind now...

Bilbo shuddered, pulling the blanket over his head in a childish attempt to escape his on terrifying thoughts. What Bilbo’s imagination conjured on its own was of no importance to his master. They were merely harmless speculations- decades worth of a deep desire to know anything and everything there was to know about Middle Earth.

Truly, Dáin was partially to blame, was he not?

Bilbo nodded to himself. Certainly, Dáin’s over protective nature played a part in Bilbo’s interest with the unfamiliar world around him.

With his thoughts a bit lighter, and the night a bit colder, Bilbo shivered off into a light sleep, the fire dancing brightly behind his eyelids.

The rest of the journey proved as uneventful as its beginning. The company had no more contact with any human villages, much to Bilbo’ dismay. And he’d scarcely even seen a wild animal to speak for. The forest had grown sparse, broken by large expanses of open land, freckled with rocks and plants of varying shapes and sizes.

The company was a great deal more restless during this time, Bilbo included. Only Kinod seemed immune to the threat they faced being out in the open, without the cover of trees to hide them. He spoke fondly of his memories in Erebor as a dwarfling, hardly stopping long enough to catch his breath. Bilbo listened dutifully, but his attention was often focused elsewhere.

They drew near to something, of that Bilbo was certain- something with great power. He’d thought, at first, it was the beseeching call of the Lonely Mountain itself, urging their company on. But, the power of mountains was a strength that ran deep into the earth, solid and steady, forever unmoving.

This power felt much different.

It was not rooted into the ground, or in any living thing, really. It slid quietly across the land, tangled with soft breezes, tickling the air around the company- never solid and always moving.

Bilbo found it quite charming in its elusiveness, blanketing them as if it were a familiar friend in one moment, and gone in the next, stronger with every reappearance. He smiled as the warmth surrounded him again.

“Late, as usual,” Kinod muttered, sounding vexed.

Bilbo followed Kinod’s gaze.

He would hardly have noticed the stranger’s arrival. Despite his stature, he had a calm and quiet aura about him. Obscured by long, dull-colored robes, Bilbo couldn’t make out any of the details of his face. He looked quite like a man, if not significantly taller, and larger in ways beyond size alone. This being, Bilbo realized as he rode closer to the company, had been the silent, unseen power slipping through their company for the better part of the day.

“Kinod?” Bilbo whispered in question.

“Oh, right,” Kinod said, turning in his saddle to set his attention back to Bilbo. “That, Bilbo, is Tharkûn. He’s a wizard. Goes by Gandalf the Grey. ”

Bilbo’s eyes widened in disbelief. He pulled his gaze away from the stranger, searching Kinod’s face for any sign of jest or deceit, he found neither, only irritation, assumably, at the wizard’s apparent late arrival. Bilbo leaned closer to Kinod, slowly, so as not to draw attention to himself.

“What’s he doing out here?” Bilbo asked.

“He’s counted as one of those trusted by the King Thorin. An advisor, of sorts, between the dwarves of Erebor and elves of Mirkwood,” Kinod spat, making no effort to hide his distaste. “Lazy folk, really. Always showing up late to where they aren’t wanted in the first place.”

Bilbo swallowed, sliding deeper into his saddle.

“The elves or wizards?” He asked.

Kinod looked utterly insulted. “Well, wizards of course. Elves would dare not show up anywhere uninvited. I’d have nothing so nice to say about a damned elf, anyway. You’d do well to remember that, Bilbo, the lot of them are evil, each and every one of ‘em.”

“Now, now, we shouldn’t go spreading lies to fellows who don’t know the difference.” Kinod jumped, looking much like a dwarfling being properly chastised, and by a wizard, no less. “Tell me then, Kinod, son of Hiljad, when was the last time you kept company with an elf?”

Kinod recovered quickly, sitting straight as he acknowledged Gandalf’s presence.

“Never, Mister Gandalf,” Kinod huffed, turning his nose up to hide the angry blush dusting across his cheeks. “And, I don’t ever plan on it, either.”

Kinod gave his pony a rough nudge, trotting further up the line of their company. Gandalf’s horse walked up beside Bilbo, slipping into Kinod’s abandoned spot with ease.

“Good evening, friends,” Gandalf greeted. The company remained quiet, save for a few begrudged grunts.

Gandalf looked torn between irritation and amusement at their terrible manners.

Bilbo continued to peak around the edge of his hood, head tipped to look at the well-worn hat atop Gandalf’s head. It looked tired, slumped back like a wilted flower of old wool. His gaze traveled down, taking in the lines and spots of Gandalf’s face. Somehow, the wizard wasn’t quite what Bilbo had expected, nothing like what he’d read in his books.

As if sensing Bilbo’s gaze, Gandalf turned to meet it. The moment their eyes locked, Bilbo could see it, then; an infinite knowledge brought by centuries of patience and experience, power that simmered like the embers of a dying fire- always in danger of igniting a flame, but often overlooked. But, there was also gentleness, as soft and honest as the smile on the wizard's face.

Bilbo ducked his head back down, embarrassed at being caught, and for continuing to stare so long after. He hoped Gandalf was not as quick to anger as the dwarves.

“I admit, it has been a long time since I last came across a hobbit.” Gandalf revealed. He continued to look Bilbo over, seeming more intrigued than he was wary. “But, you, Bilbo Baggins, are not what I expected.”

“Baggins?” Bilbo asked, staring openly at Gandalf now. “What’s a Baggins?”

“Why, it’s you, my dear boy. Although you don’t know the name, nor that you belong to it, I suppose.”

“I don’t understand,” Bilbo told him, utterly confused as to what Gandalf was going on about.

“I knew your mother, Belladonna Took, and your father, Bungo Baggins,” Gandalf said quietly, as if he wished to keep their conversation quiet from the rest of the company. “Great hobbits. Even better friends.”

Bilbo did not know what to say. He’d never met anyone who’d come across a hobbit, other than himself. What’s more, he’d never heard his parents’ names, either. He hadn’t given much thought to it, really. From what he knew, hobbits were a private folk that had rarely done business with anyone outside of Bree, with few exceptions. He had not counted on meeting acquaintances of his late parents, nor anyone of his kind, for that matter.

“Belladonna,” Bilbo tested the name out loud, then mouthed it a few times more, enjoying how it felt as it rolled over his tongue. It was a beautiful name.

He’d remembered her, once, so long ago. No more than a faunt, and Bilbo could hear the sound of a sweet, soft lullaby echoing through the dark halls of a warm home. Late at night, in his stone room beneath the Iron Hills, when the world grew cold, and his existence a burden, he’d sang along with the ghost of her voice.

“I don’t remember her,” and Bilbo didn’t. Not anymore.

“I am sorry, my dear boy” Gandalf spoke so sincerely, Bilbo didn’t doubt how truthful the sentiment was. “It is no small thing, to take such innocent life. A curse hangs upon those who commit such evil.”  
“Indeed,” Bilbo agreed.

The company covered more ground with Gandalf in their company. Though Bilbo wasn’t sure if it was a sign of Gandalf’s unnatural influence on their speed, or the dwarrows’ desire to be rid of him.

The last day of their journey was nearing its end as they came to the top of a tall hill where the land flattened and then disappeared into the mouth of a massive cliff. The company spread out at the edge, looking over the vast space within. At its center, stood a bright city with tall towers and colorful flags that waved proudly in the breeze.

Beyond that, carved into the very base of the Lonely Mountain’s magnificence, flanked by two imposing statues, lined with tall pine trees, and filled with an entire kingdom, were the Great Gates of Erebor.


	2. Atkât

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware: This chapter is very rough. It has not been edited. So, please proceed with caution. It will be updated with edits soon.

_“Now it is a strange thing, but things that are good to have  
and days that are good to spend  
are soon told about, and not much to listen to;  
while things that are uncomfortable, palpitating, and even gruesome,  
may make a good tale, and take a deal of telling anyway.” _

_-J.R.R Tolkien (The Hobbit)  
.  
.  
Atkât  
._

Dale was beautiful.

It was merry and bright, bustling with life. 

Bilbo’s neck was already aching as he turned his head this way and that, trying to take in as much of the city as he could. The streets were crowded, filled with a mix of dwarves and men. He’d dismounted Urkhas as soon as they’d crossed the valley, opting to lead his pony by foot in order to keep him calm through the mass of people. He kept the reins short, afraid that the press of bodies might become too much for the anxious stallion. 

The markets were lined with countless shops and stalls; some decorated with fine, intricate fabrics, others with an array of weapons more impressive than all of the Iron Hills’ armory. But the ones Bilbo’s liked best were overflowing with ripe, colorful foods. 

Everyone was shouting, trying to be heard over the surrounding clamor. 

“What do we have here?”

Bilbo started at the voice that came from right beside him. Urkhas whinnied, nudging at Bilbo’s back in obvious agitation. 

“It’s all right, boy.” Bilbo rubbed soothing circles along the pony’s jaw, watching the stranger from the corner of his eye.

“Sorry ‘bout that. Didn’t mean to scared the fella.” 

The dwarf scratch at his beard, fingers wrapping around a curl at the tip of his mustache in a nervous fashion. He had a large, funny looking hat on, with thick brown leather and lined with fur. 

“That’s all right,” Bilbo told him with a small smile. “He’s easily spooked.”

“As is his wee master, it would seem,” the dwarf said teasingly. Bilbo blushed, unable to deny the accusation. “Must be your first time here, lad.”

“How could you tell?” 

“I’m sure I’ve never seen ya’ here before, or anyone like ya’, for that matter.” He looked curious now. “If you don’t mind me askin’, where ya’ from? You don’t look like a dwarf, but surely you’re too small to be a wee human, either?”

Bilbo wasn’t sure how to answer, or what he was allowed to say. They were just outside of Erebor, surely most of Dale must know about him, or of the coming marriage, at the very least. He turned to look for Kinod, only to realize the company had moved quite far ahead in the crowd. 

“Well,” Bilbo hesitated, biting at his bottom lip, “I come from the Iron Hills.” 

It couldn’t hurt to say as much, Bilbo hoped. 

“My beard, I’ve forgot my manners!” The dwarf scrambled about suddenly, snatching his hat from his head to reveal a tangle of dark brown hair, tied messily into two braids. He bent over at the waste, bowing deep as he announced cheerfully, “Bofur, at your service.”

Bilbo smiled fondly, finding he liked the dwarf very much. Bofur was awfully pleasant, considering Bilbo was a stranger, and not even a dwarf one at that. 

“Bilbo,” he replied, bending over until he was face-to-face with Bofur again, “at yours.”

They straightened as one, still smiling. 

Behind Bofur was a large wooden cart, stuffed with trinkets and toys that looked like they’d been crafted with the utmost love and care. At the very center of them all was a small, iron dragon; it’s wings pointed up and folded against its sides, head drawn back as if it were prepared to unleash a great burst of flames. 

“Ah,” Bofur said, following his gaze. “That’ll be Smaug. Think furnace, with wings.”

“Smaug? Is it tradition to name your work before you sell it?” Bilbo asked.

“Course not.” Bofur looked a bit put out. “But, it’s been ‘round far too long, that one. Can’t seem to get rid of ‘im.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Bilbo frowned. “He’s exquisite.” Bofur’s cheeks flushed and he dug the toe of his boot into the ground, refusing to meet Bilbo’s eyes. “Who made all these?”

“That’ll be me,” he said bashfully. “Can’t say I often get much interest in them, aside from the little ones running about, that is.”

“I see,” Bilbo agreed. “I suppose I admire them since I’ve never had a toy of my own before. But, I expect I’m much too old for those things now.”

Bfour made a loud sound of disbelief, looking as if Bilbo had gone and sprouted a second head.

“That can’t be true. What’s a childhood without toys?” Bofur appeared far more upset then Bilbo had ever felt about it. “Why, I reckon that’s no childhood at all.”

Bilbo laughed. “I had my books to keep me company,” he said reassuringly, but it seemed to only unsettle the dwarf further. 

Bofur spun around, grabbed Smaug from the lowest shelf of the cart and held the miniature beast out to Bilbo. “Here.”

Bilbo just stared at Bofur in surprise. 

“Bofur, I can’t accept that. That’s far too generous.” He barely avoided stumbling over his words, completely taken back by the unexpected gesture. 

“Nonsense,” Bofur said firmly, grabbing Bilbo’s wrist and pressing the cold dragon into his palm. “You’d be doin’ me a favor, lad. He’s only takin’ up space from my best sellers.”

Bilbo didn’t know what to say. He wished he had something to give Bofur in return for his kindness, but he had nothing of any real value, and surely nothing that could compare to Bofur’s beautiful craftsmanship. 

“I don’t know how I could ever repay you,” Bilo whispered. 

“The knowledge that it’s goin’ to a good home is plenty for me, lad.”

“Thank you, Bofur.” Bilbo bowed again, cradling the precious gift against his chest as he went.

“Think nothing of it,” Bofur insisted. 

They both stood for a moment in companionable silence while Bilbo admired Bofur’s work up close. 

Then, he remembered.

“Oh!” Bilbo turned frantically, hoping he hadn’t lost sight of the company. But Gandalf was there, standing off to the side and out of the way, watching their exchange with open curiosity. His brow quirked when Bilbo caught sight of him. “I should be going.”

“Is that..” Bofur trailed off, his attention flitting back and forth between Bilbo and the wizard. “Then, you must be…”

Bilbo gave Bofur one last smile. “It was lovely to meet you Bofur.”

Bilbo turned, tugging gently at Urkhas’s reins as he moved back into the crowd. Gandalf rode out to meet him in the middle of the the road and they went off after the company. 

“I do not think I need to remind you of the stubbornness of dwarves, Bilbo,” Gandalf said, fixing him with a look that was both apologetic and expectant. 

Bilbo looked down, dragon still clasped tightly in his hand, and wondered what Kinod would say; if he’d think it important enough to report to Dain. Bilbo knew Kinod had a habit of working himself into fits of paranoia which would only give Dain cause to worry as well. It seemed unnecessary over something so small. 

Truthfully, Bilbo didn’t want to think about the possibility of parting with it. It was a memory now, as much as it was a token of a new life and a new friendship in a new land. 

“Best keep it somewhere safe,” Gandalf suggested with a wink. 

Bilbo nodded in delight, fumbling with the straps of his saddle bag. He pulled the scarf free from his neck, wrapped it loosely around Smaug, and tucked them deep into the corner of his bag. He understood a little better now, why Kinod and the rest of the company seemed less than fond of Gandalf. He was certainly a mischievous sort.

“Will we be staying in Dale tonight, Gandalf?” Bilbo asked as soon as he finished refastening the buckles on his pack. 

“We will.” Gandalf confirmed. “A small party from Erebor will come to escort you at dawn. You’ll need a good night’s rest and have a bit of washing up to do.” Gandalf gestured toward his cheek. 

Bilbo reached up, scrubbing his hand against his skin. His knuckles came back greasy and dark, looking suspiciously similar to the oils he’d use to clean his daggers the day before. Which could only mean he’d spent an entire conversation, and the whole trip through Dale, with the polish smeared on face. 

“Lovely,” he said. 

Gandalf merely chuckled.  
  
On the outskirts of the Dale, closeby the wall that safeguarded the city, were a handful of small stone buildings. Their exteriors were embellished with colorful stones and deeply carved runes; decidedly more exceptional than the rest of Dale and the unmistakable work of dwarves. 

The furthest building stood a bit higher and wider than the rest, it’s double doors held open by two ironclad dwarves. In the doorway stood a less-armored, older dwarf with an impressively long, white beard. He had a kind smile on his face, not so unlike Bofur’s. Bilbo was beginning to suspect that the dwarves of Erebor were an entirely different sort than their kin in the Iron Hills. It was not an unwelcome discovery. 

Gandalf spoke first as the company came to a halt, “Balin. Good to see you.”

The older dwarf, Balin, came down the stairs with his arms opened wide as he welcomed the company, though his gaze was fixed solely on Bilbo. “Aye, Gandalf, it is good to see a familiar face, and a fair amount of new ones, as well.” 

Bilbo tried not to squirm under the obvious appraisal. He bowed his head once, slowly, to show his respect, but remained quiet. 

“This must be our hobbit,” Balin said, coming to stand right in front of Bilbo.When Bilbo finally looked up, Balin looked fairly pleased. He had his hands on his hips and the smile, if possible, grew even larger. “Bilbo, if I remember correctly.”

Bilbo nodded softly. “Your memory serves you well, my lord.”

Balin waved him off quickly. “Balin will do just fine, laddie.”

Bilbo resisted the urge to look over at Kinod for permission. He nodded again. “Balin, then.”

Balin clapped his hands together. “We’ve made ready rooms and a warm meal for all of you. The stable hands will see to your ponies while you rest. Should you want for anything you need only ask.”

As Balin spoke, a small group of dwarves came out from behind the living quarters and the rest of the company dismounted from their ponies. They all made their way inside, with Gandalf at the lead. Only Balin and Bilbo lingered outside while the stable hands lead all the ponies back the way they came. 

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” Bilbo said hopefully, “it might be best if I look after this one myself. He’s not overly fond of strangers.”

Balin raised a brow, peeking behind Bilbo in time to see Urkhas jerking on the reins, his head tossing about anxiously. Rather than look annoyed with the troubled pony, Balin seemed to be amused.

“Not a problem, laddie,” Balin reassured him as he turned to walk along the side of the building. “Come then, I’ll show you to the stables.”

“You need not go to all the trouble,” Bilbo said quickly, trotting after Balin. “You could just point me in the right direction.”

“Peace, Bilbo,” Balin said placatingly. “What kind of advisor would I be if I let the king’s consort wander off alone?”

Bilbo couldn't find room for argument, so he stepped up beside Balin to match his unhurried pace. They walked through the shadow of the building until the darkness faded away beneath the sunlight and opened out into wide pastures. Hidden behind the main quarters was a small stable, built with a deep, rich-colored wood, and large circular paddocks on either side. Some of the ponies were already out in the fields, grazing on the lush, green grass. 

“I trust your journey was safe?” Balin asked suddenly.

“Yes, of course,” Bilbo answered. 

“Good, good.The king will be pleased.” 

Once they were inside the stable, Balin lead them to a large stall at the end of the pathway. Fresh straw was laid out on the floor, and a net full of hay hung in the corner, dangling beside a bucket of clear water. Urkhas nearly ran Bilbo over in his haste to get inside. 

Bilbo laughed fondly, dropping the reins as he closed the stall behind him. Balin leaned in, one arm lifting to rest along the top of the door, but Urkhas beat him to it, striking out with his teeth bared and his ears flat. 

Bilbo nudged the stubborn pony away, his cheeks burning in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Balin.” 

“Not to worry,” Balin said. He eyed Urkhas skeptically, but the pony had already moved on, munching sloppily at his food. “I had fair warning.”

Bilbo unlaced the girth, sliding the saddle from Urkhas’s back before he moved onto the bridle. Globs of wet, chewed hay fell into Bilbo’s hand as he pulled the bit free from Urkhas’s mouth. He grimaced, trying to shake the filth free from his hand, but it held on stubbornly. 

“Bring it here, laddie.”

Balin held the stall open for Bilbo, took the saddle from his arm, and draped it over a nearby post. Bilbo followed his lead, hanging the bridle on a hook secured conveniently next to the saddle. Balin pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and patiently held his hand out towards Bilbo, who raised his in return, careful not to lay the dirty side against Balin’s nice leather glove. 

“Balin?” Bilbo watched while Balin wiped his hand thoroughly, staining the white handkerchief with a pale green residue of pony drool. 

“Yes, laddie?”

“What’s he like?” Bilbo asked shyly. He didn’t know anyone here well, least of all the king, but Balin seemed nice enough and, as the king’s advisor, likely knew him best of all. “The king, I mean.”

Balin scrubbed at Bilbo’s hand a few more times for good measure, until there was only the faintest sign of discoloration. He turned Bilbo’s hand over to check his work, tucking the handkerchief back in his pocket when he was satisfied. “Thorin?” 

Bilbo nodded, though Balin wasn’t looking at him.

“Thorin is a just king, a strong warrior, and an even greater son.” Balin spoke of Thorin reverently, not the admiration of a loyal follower, but affectionately, as one might speak of family. His eyes were far off- caught in a thought, or memory that only he could see. “Erebor could not ask for a better leader, not for Mahal himself.”

“He sounds extraordinary.” Bilbo wondered if he really was. After all, greatness was a matter of perception- perception that could easily be influenced by close relationships and blind rationalizations. But, if Balin and Bofur’s kindness were even a small reflection of their king’s goodwill, then Thorin was indeed the great dwarf Balin claimed him to be. 

“He’ll do right by you, Bilbo,” Balin promised, clasping both of Bilbo’s arms tightly- the way dwarves were always so inclined to do to show their sincerity. “You don’t need to be scared.”

Bilbo swallowed and shook his head slowly, “I’m not.”

Balin didn’t look convinced. “There’s no shame in it, lad.”

Bilbo traced his finger along the smooth wood of Urkhas’s stall, silenced by unfamiliar emotions. It wasn’t that he was scared of Thorin, or any other dwarf, for that matter. Rather, he was scared of his own inadequacies; of not finding his place, and failing in the only quest Dain had ever asked of him. 

Balin broke the long silence. “Why don’t we get you inside? You must be hungry.”

Bilbo nodded, grateful for the change in subject, although he doubted his stomach could handle any food right now. He sighed, fairly disconcerted with how often and easily he was losing his appetite as of late.  
.  
.  
.  
.

  
While Balin was nice, Bilbo only found comfort in the presence of the company - their familiarity put him at ease. Kinod remained dutifully by his side once Balin had shown Bilbo to his rooms- a quiet and constant companion that Bilbo was glad to have. He barely took his head out of his books and scrolls, unless directly addressed, but Bilbo didn’t mind. He laid in a soft bed, with a full belly and a clean body, listening to the soft scratch of Kinod’s quill as it raced to keep up with the scribe’s thoughts.

“Tomorrow, everything will change.”

The scratching stopped, and just before he fell asleep, Bilbo heard Kinod’s soft reply. “I’m afraid you’re right, Bilbo.”

Bilbo did not often dream. Rare as it was, he’d only ever experienced the worst kind of nightmares; ones that woke him in a cold sweat, shaking with the inability to decipher reality from his own dark imaginations, never the kind filled with his deepest- most unattainable- desires. He would always be on edge in the days that followed, quick to frustration and overly restless. Dark corners would breed irrational fear, whispering false doubts in Bilbo’s ear.

The Iron Hills’ library has been filled with books on ailments of the mind, almost all of which, centered around the fragile existence and ruin that followed dwarves out of war. He’d read of warriors, sick with hallucinations and haunting dreams- an endless consequence of their harrowing days on the battlefield. But, Bilbo had never been subject to the atrocities of war- he’d never know loss as if fell before him, nor felt the pain of fatal would, or the torment of taking another life.

Still he dreamt- he dreamt of terrible things, foul beyond what words could describe; he dreamt of things and tried to fight them, tried to destroy the horrifying visions while they played out around him, but it never worked. Always, Bilbo was a helpless victim to their will. And always, there was death. 

Sometimes, he was glad for it, if only to part from the agony. 

Bilbo stood amidst a sea of bodies; faceless, lifeless bodies stretched out as far as he could see, disappearing into smoke and ash. The air was rancid, sick with death and sweltering hot. He was already gasping, swallowing the air like he was starving for it, but it wasn’t enough; his chest was too heavy, it was a struggle to keep breathing. 

But, Bilbo wasn’t alone. In the distance, he could see the shape of someone standing on higher ground, surveying the devastation laid out across the valley below. He tried to run towards the figure, but his body was sluggish and heavy- so, so heavy- despite his bare chest and feet. 

Bilbo watched in horror as the figure turned his back on the carnage, lingering for a moment, his head bowed, before he started to walk away. Bilbo panicked. “Wait!”

He pushed passed the pain, dragging his lead feet across the hard ground as flames circled around him, licking at his exposed skin. For every step he took after the retreating stranger, the flames flickered higher, burned more fiercely. 

“Please, don’t go,” Bilbo shouted desperately, clawing at the air between them. The ground was shifting beneath him, splintering into large, broken pieces of earth that crumbled away into a dark, bottomless pit. There were trees, with branches too high to climb, their trunks engulfed with fire, and rocks with sharp edges, jutting out from the large hills that surrounded the valley of death. Bilbo reached for the stones, crying out in relief as his fingers found purchase on the rough surface. He struggled to pull himself off the ground just as the last of the valley gave way, collapsing into nothing. 

When Bilbo looked up, he was alone again, hovering over a vast emptiness that mirrored his own heart; no sight of the shadowed figure, no moon or stars, not even the terrifying flames to keep him company- just the dull ache in his hands and arms as he held tight to his only salvation. There was nothing, and Bilo forgot why he’d been trying so hard, why everything had hurt so much. 

“This isn’t real,” Bilbo whispered to himself. “It’s not real.”

It felt real, all of it. He didn’t want to feel it anymore. 

Bilbo closed his eyes tight and let go, welcoming the darkness as it swallowed him whole. 

Dreams were like a knife that severed ties to reality; they wrapped truth and lie around each other, blended all their edges, until one was hardly discernible from the other. They erased rational thoughts, and forced fear and suspicion into their place. Waking from them wasn’t the end, though it certainly dulled the pain. 

Bilbo dug his knuckles into the sensitive flesh below his temples and pulled roughly at his hair, trying to chase away the lingering daze that had held him captive. He looked out from between his fingers to the other side of the room. Kinod was spread out over his blankets, with his boots still on and dangling over the end of the bed. 

He was just sleeping, Bilbo had to remind himself; for when he closed his eyes, the bodies were there, strewn out across the ground, and Bilbo could see Kinod’s familiar face at the center of them all, staring straight through him. 

He was just sleeping. 

With a long, weathered sigh, Bilbo pulled back his covers, swinging his feet over the edge of his bed. The wood floor was cold against his bare feet, more so than he’d been accustomed to in the Iron Hills. Back home, Bilbo had often kept the fire in his quarters going, as he’d always been prone to getting cold, but even when he’d gone without, the chill in the underground tunnels was a pale comparison to the the cold he’d faced along their journey, especially now- colder still as they moved closer to the mountain. 

Bilbo wiggled his feet, they tingled as his blood circulated faster, toes itching uncomfortably. After always having them on during the journey, he felt terribly bare without his boots on, like his feet had become more fragile after spending so much time wrapped in the protection of iron and thick leather. He reached over to his boots as he stood, walking softly to the door, careful not to wake Kinod. He pulled the door shut behind him, letting the latches fall quietly into place before he bent to slide on his boots, working through the many ties and latches that kept them secure. 

It was still dark outside; the air was crisp and the grass wet with dew, the sun was just a glimmer of light peeking out over the horizon. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself as he noticed movement off in the distance. 

“Not much use in them staying any longer,” Balin said suddenly from behind him. Bilbo had heard him coming a moment before he spoke. “They received word from Dain early this morning.”

Bilbo nodded, watching the last of the company disappear behind a far-off building. 

“How many remain?” 

“Three, aside from your scribe,” Balin answered. “More than necessary, I believe. I dare say Thorin may take insult at Dain’s lack of confidence in our ability to guard his young charge.”

“I think it’s less a matter of my safety, and more a matter of my own mental stability. I’m sure the royal guard would never be found lacking,” Bilbo assured him. 

When training had demanded Bilbo’s constant vigilance and caution, bordering utter suspicion, it was hard to feel relaxed even around your most trusted companions. Trust was scarcely come by to anyone outside direct family and life-long friends, or in Bilbo’s case, to anyone at all. So, it frightened him a great deal that soon he would be without his closest companions, surrounded by strangers, and not a soul to trust with a whisper of discontent.

He should have been used to it by now, but losing Dain meant losing the only person he’d ever been allowed to trust. 

Balin’s presence was unexplainably calming, though Bilbo wasn't entirely sure why; maybe it was his age, his patient smile, or how he always seemed so at peace, so much less guarded than any other of his race. Surely, it was why he’d been picked for his place at the king’s side, and seeing to Bilbo’s safe arrival. Bilbo tried not to think too hard on it, instead he took what comfort it offered him. Bilbo tilted his head toward the commotion coming from inside. Balin seemed not to have heard it, but Bilbo could always hear Kinod coming from a mile away. Quick with his hands, most definitely, but incredibly heavy with his feet. 

“Morning, Balin, Bilbo.”

Kinod walsted outside, dressed and hauling two packs over his shoulder, as if he’d been awake for hours. 

“An early start today?” Bilbo asked curiously. He was anxious for their own arrival- scarcely able to maintain the patience their journey required. Yet, he felt a sense of foreboding as their journey came to an end. 

“Yes, I think it best we make way for the mountain as soon as possible,” Balin spoke out. “The king hasn’t many enemies in the city of Dale, but we should all feel safer within the mountain, I’m certain.”

Bilbo nodded his agreement, returning Balin’s reassuring smile.

As if sending the direction of the conversation, the remaining guard emerged slowly from the direction of the barn, horses saddled and dressed for war. 

Urkhas came around at last, his head jerking violently against the guard’s hold on his lead. Bilbo snorted, then moved quickly to relieve the poor dwarf of his task. Urkhas was an exceptional mount, for one being alone, and an absolute monster otherwise. Balin seemed unbothered by the pony’s attitude. He walked fearlessly in their direction, but kept a respectable distance. 

Bilbo mounted, but kept his gaze fixed on Balin’s face as he waited for him to speak. Balin held Bilbo’s eyes for another moment, then asked quietly enough for Bilbo’s ears alone, “Are you ready, lad?”

Bilbo merely nodded, a wavering smile shaking at the corner of his lips. He had no doubt Balin would see through the lack of genuinity, but under false assumptions, which Bilbo had no intention of correcting. Let Balin see what he wanted, it was the point of it all, really. 

“As I shall ever be,” he responded playfully. 

Balin looked appeased with his jesting, and gave a quick pat to his leg, before following the company’s lead and mounting his own pony just a few paces from Bilbo. 

The journey thus far had felt long and arduous. That much, Bilbo would never deny, but it paled in comparison to the final day of their ride. The King’s guard moved swiftly over the familiar territory, their pace was more insistent than impatient, but it thickened the tension as they neared the halls of their ancestors. 

Bilbo would be a fool to say he wasn’t worried; on the contrary, of so many things, he was. There was more to be lost than gained, more paths to failure than to success. Something stirred within him as he thought back to Balin’s absolute admiration as he’d talked about the king. Bilbo ought not to let his mind wonder. Dain had told him as much, far more times than he could count, but it was hard not to. So many stories he’d been told- an endless account of deeds and words that seemed far too many in number and importance for a king so young.

He was shaken from his thoughts quite suddenly.

His hand instinctively moved towards the dagger hidden beneath layers of tunics, and wrapped in a protective cloth, but Kinod gave a tight, reassuring squeeze to his shoulder and nodded up ahead. 

A beautiful thing it had been, the mountain, from afar. But, it was not so as they stood before it. 

It was not beautiful, nor was it grand. 

In this moment, words were too poor- too lacking- to detail the magnificence before them. Bilbo had come across so many- so many words, and yet, none fit. To try, would be much like using a candle to illustrate the destruction of dragon fire, he imaged. 

“Welcome, Bilbo of the Iron Hills, to Erebor,” Balin said with a mix of deep sincerity and overwhelming pride. “Your new home awaits.”

Balin nudged his pony forward again, the rest of the guard followed closely behind. Bilbo followed at a more sedate pace, watching the immediate fascination fade from Kinod’s face, replaced with something hard- determined. He gave a slow nod. Bilbo responded in kind, a silent acknowledgement of resolute loyalty to their purpose. 

The kingdom under the mountain was no less magnificent when they entered through large gates, surrounded by loud shouts of Khuzdul and the synchronized thump of the marching guard as they lined the stone path on either side of the entrance. 

Bilbo dismounted in a daze, keeping pace with Balin, Kinod’s presence nipping at his heels. He nearly missed the startled whinny from Urkhas just behind them, but as he turned to protest, Kinod pressed his palm firmly to Bilbo’s back, before pulling away just as swiftly.

“No,” he said simply. 

Bilbo bit his tongue. Now was not the place, nor the time to argue, lest the surrounding company be presented with an ill-fitting first impression of the new arrivals. Balin, consistently reassuring as he was kind, replaced Kinod’s hand with his own, encouraging Bilbo deeper into the mountain.

A monster that pony may be, but as a prince he shall be treated. You need not worry, laddie. They’ll take good care. They'll endure a good number of teeth and tugging without returning the favor. That much I can promise you.”

Bilbo merely nodded, anxious but temporarily placated by Balin’s calm genuinity. He snuck another quick glance over his shoulder, ignoring Kinod’s disapproving gaze as it moved to something ahead. He hadn’t thought of it ‘til now- had hoped he’d be allowed to visit his friend at his own will. Now, though, he wasn’t so sure.

“So, this is the hobbit.”

Bilbo could scarcely breath. All his life, he’d done so effortlessly, but in only a moment, it seemed he’d entirely forgotten how. While the voice was unfamiliar in it’s depth and regality, Bilbo could feel the awareness drumming through his bones, and gripping all his insides. He was not at all unfamiliar with nobility, but the pureness of it rang true in every word. 

He could feel the moment Kinod and Balin moved away from him leaving a wide girth of space all around him. Bilbo managed a small, stuttering breath as he turned his head, lowering the upper half of his body in a bow, and keeping his gaze trained on the ground. 

The sight wasn’t quite what he expected. In contrast to the beautifully polished and gold-trimmed boots that Dain was so fond of, stared curiously at the plain-simple in color and design-, well-worn boots before him.

“Aye, your majesty,” Balin spoke from somewhere to his left. He sounded far away, his voice nearly indiscernible against the pounding in Bilbo’s ears. He heard Balin give a quick, but obvious cough.

Bilbo dipped his head a bit further in apology, his voice quiet but solid when he spoke.

“Your Majesty, Bilbo of the Iron Hills, at your service,” he poured as much sincerity into his voice as he had in him. Balin’s twinkling laugh was enough to reassure Bilbo of a job well done. 

Bilbo waited, preparing himself for the return of the profoundly deep voice. He startled the smallest bit when, instead, he felt solid, deft fingers touch the delicate skin under his chin, coaxing Bilbo out of his formal greeting. 

Nothing could have prepared him for Thorin, King Under the Mountain. Not all the magnificence of the mountain, nor the Gates of Erebor, or the colorful life in the City of Dale could manage a fraction of the allure of the King. 

Every inch of Thorin demanded respect. He was as imposing as he was impressive; tall and solid, his stance wide and firm, as if carved from stone itself, the intensity of his stare and the swirling color of his eyes... there was far too much to take in at once, and Bilbo was overwhelmed with the complexity of it all. 

Thorin reciprocated his stare, though with a great deal more sharpness, cutting through him as easily a knife slipping through butter- as if he could look straight into the depths of Bilbo’s soul and read every thought in his mind, see every intention laid out plainly. 

Bilbo could not begin to imagine what the king saw in return, only that the intensity of his stare never wavered, not for a moment. Their eyes locked for what seemed like an eternity. Bilbo fought valiantly to read the king’s reaction, searching for any measure of favorability, but his face gave nothing away- not a flicker of emotion, nor the smallest sign of dismissal or acceptance. 

Thorin mirrored his early movements, tipping his head lightly in return. Finally, Bilbo was freed from the spell. He huffed out a breath of relief, leaning back to look subtly in Kinod’s direction.

Where the king's reaction had left much to be desired, Kinod’s was open and honest. There was a look of great satisfaction on his face. It quelled any uncertainty lingering in Bilbo’s thoughts. Bilbo found confidence in Kinod’s surety. The tension and unease that had draped over Kinod and the company members during their journey had all but disappeared upon his first introduction to the king. 

“And I, at yours,” the king spoke finally. His words held a more effortless weight then Bilbo’s own- made them seem so small and insignificant. 

“Well, then,” Balin cut in. “We don’t want you late for your own wedding, do we? Best get straight to it.”

There was but a moment of terrifying confusion as Balin reached for Bilbo, guiding him away from the entrance of Erebor with a steady hand and a sense of finality. 

“The wedding…” Bilbo tried, feeling somewhat in a daze. “The wedding is today?”

Bilbo’s head spun quickly to Kinod, who seemed entirely at ease with Balin’s declaration. It would appear, Bilbo had been alone in the unknown. It felt like a betrayal- a bitter taste that coated his tongue and encouraged his insecurities. He dared another glance at the king, surprised to find his gaze still fixed on Bilbo. All his thoughts dissolved under the startling blue stare. He vaguely made out the sound of Balin speaking somewhere beside him, but could hardly make out any of the words. 

He was held captive by the king’s attention until they turned down a sharp corner, and the rest of the world came back into focus. 

“What?” Bilbo asked, turning back to Balin and he tried to keep pace with his enthusiasm.

“‘Twas a far better reaction than I could have hoped for, laddie!” Balin was delighted. “You needn’t worry at all!”

“I didn’t know…” Bilbo could hardly admit he’d been entirely unaware of when his own wedding would occur. Surely, he’d missed something, somewhere along the journey, some snippet of conversation slipped his mind. Surely…

“Did you not know you’d be wed today, laddie?” Balin asked, his tone turning slightly sour. 

Bilbo wasn’t sure how to answer. Outright lying to Balin’s openly soft concern was difficult, to say the least. He opted for something a little safer. 

“No, I simply hadn’t realized it would happen so quickly.”

Bilbo knew he’d made the right choice when Balin sighed in relief, twisting and turning through an endless maze of tunnels. They moved quickly. Bilbo barely managed to keep his arm when Balin made one more sharp turn into an open doorway. 

“Good evening,” Balin called. Bilbo looked around the room, regarding the handful of slightly familiar tunics marked with the royal family’s symbol beside a silver, intricately wound pendant that marked that staff in a similar way to those of the Iron Hills.

Bilbo made a quick bow to the dwarves spread out across the well-lit room. It was nearly empty, save for the staff, a round standing stool, a large-crafted looking glass, and a table lined with an array of colorful cloth and sewing supplies. Bilbo swallowed. 

One dwarf stepped forward. He was young, endearingly so. He had hardly a beard to speak of, and an oddly cut halo of red hair atop his head. He spoke in quick Khuzdul with Balin- his voice light and squeaky for such a strong, heavy tongue. 

Bilbo tore his attention away from their conversation, a habit fashioned from Dain’s insistence and the suspicious nature of dwarves in all of the Iron Hills. Family, he may have been but Dain had made clear Bilbo had no place in any conversations where Khuzdul was involved. Instead, he swept his gaze over the remaining dwarves, all with impressive and thoughtfully braided beards and hair. Some were decorated with thick beads, and others with jewels, and all were strikingly handsome.

“I best leave you to it, then, Bilbo.” 

Balin gave a gentle pat to his shoulder and offered a last reassuring smile before he turned to leave. 

“H-Hello.”

The dwarf shuffled closer to Bilbo in Balin’s absence. The flush of pink across his cheeks and his openly warm expression put Bilbo at ease for the first time since entering Dale. He gave another bow, “Bilbo of the Iron Hills, at your service,” he said sincerely. 

“Oh!” Ori rushed to follow his lead, bending over quickly at the waist, “Ori, at yours! Forgive me, I’ve never seen a hobbit before.” Ori admitted bashfully. 

There were so many things Bilbo wanted to say in that moment, but Ori’s innocence was genuine. 

“That will make two of us, I suppose,” he said simply. 

Ori chuckled, scratching the back of his head in a nervous gesture, seemingly unsure if he sparked Bilbo’s ire or sense of humor. Bilbo smiled for good measure, relieved when Ori mirrored it, his enthusiasm returned.

One of the dwarves cleared their throat, an older woman with her beard tied up into a knot at the crown of her head. She was smiling, if only slightly, at their encounter.

“Right,” Ori said firmly, ushering Bilbo over and up onto the wood platform. “We haven’t much time, have we?”

The other dwarves moved in as soon as Bilbo was off the ground; taking measurements, sorting through the layers of cloth and arming themselves with needle and thread. It would have been amusing, had Bilbo not been so utterly on edge. 

This was his moment, he reminded himself. This is what he’d been trained to do, to accept. Bilbo took a deep breath, centering his mind and settling his emotions. He let the world around him move carelessly on, his mind attuned to a single point of focus. 

Duty.  
.  
.  
.  
.

Bilbo plucked at the many layers of blue, gold and red wrapped around his body. He’d never felt more weighed down, not even by heavy dwarven weapons. He had half a mind to tear free from the constricting swatch of tunics and robes. Though, he must admit, they’d come together so beautifully, with subtly bright colors peaking out from beneath the darkest, outermost layers. 

He took one last deep breath and ducked his head again, peeking at the impossibly tall ceremonial doors from beneath his partially braided fringe.

“I’m ready,” he said finally. 

He saw Balin nod from the corner of his eyes and felt Kinod do the same beside him. The guards went in pairs, heaving the doors open with slow, practiced ease. 

Bilbo’s heart nearly dropped from his chest. Beyond the doors lay a finely decorated aisle, lined generously with stones and jewels to match the royal colors, and white flowers placed sparingly throughout. The walls were adorned with countless tapestries signifying the line of the line of Durin, and a sea of bodies stood on either side- a larger gathering than Bilbo had ever been witness to. 

And, there, at the center of it all, was the king. 

Kinod stood directly in front of Bilbo, shielding him almost entirely from the shifting crowd. Bilbo was immensely grateful for it, as he followed Kinod’s slow, but sure gate, stepping softly into the ceremonial hall. 

He kept his eyes trained on the back of Kinod’s boots, too terrified to look around as gasps and delighted whispers echoed out across the hall. He’d wondered, if only slightly, how the people of Erebor had taken to the news of the wedding. It meant little to him, truly. And yet, the thought was ever present in his wondering. 

Bilbo could feel the tremble in his hands grow stronger, he clasped his hands together tighter, willing them to stop.

Kinod came to a stop at the foot of the stone steps. He extended his arm, which Bilbo accepted all too quickly, steadied by the familiar presence at his side; a gentle reminder and insistent encouragement. 

He could feel, rather than see, the moment he came to stand before the king. Kinod’s presence faded away quietly, and Bilbo was left to face the staggering task on his own. He bowed heavily, his legs bent, and knees nearly nearly touching the ground. 

“Your majesty,” he greeted softly. 

Not for the first time, Bilbo found his head gently, but firmly raised to meet the king’s gaze. It was no different than the first meeting, and yet, somehow, far more profound. His memory hadn’t exaggerated the remarkable color of the king’s eyes in the hours leading up to this moment. His mind had done them no justice. 

“If we are to be wed, I wish for you to call me by my name,” the king admitted, quiet but firm. 

Bilbo felt his cheeks grow warm. 

“Yes, Thorin,” he nodded.

For a moment, Bilbo wondered if he’d imagine the subtle movement at the corner of Thorin’s mouth. Not quite a smile, nor a smirk, but something other than the hard line, set in a solid straight line and framed by a thick, short beard. 

He hadn’t much time to wonder about it, though, as Thorin gave a quick signal and the ceremony began. An older dwarf, with hair as white and soft as snow in the dead of winter, came forth, cradling a large opened book to his chest. 

“We have gathered here today, good peoples of Erebor, the City of Dale, and the Iron Hills, as witness to the joining of two fates and the union of two peoples. Thorin, King of Erebor, and Bilbo of the Iron Hills, step forward.”

Thorin took the smallest stepforward, giving Bilbo control over the measure of their closeness. He moved forward, aligning the tip of his toes as closely as the traditions of appropriation would allow, and held fast to Thorin’s strong gaze. 

The speech that followed melted with the colors and the people around them. The dwarf was slow and steady in his reading, turning through the pages at a sedate pace and with familiar confidence. The book was closed loudly, a finality that sunk deep into Bilbo’s core. It was set aside and traded for an elaborately crafted cup, trimmed with large sapphires and smaller, more delicate-looking gems, just as Thorin brought forward one arm, a long, thin line of red fabric cradled loosely in his hand. He opened his other hand in the space between them- a silent request. 

Bilbo covered it with his own, laying his bare forearm across Thorin’s larger one, trying to subdue the unexpected shiver twisting along his spine. The contrast was unusually fascinating; his hand, barely able to clasp around half the girth of Thorin’s elbow, his skin nearly white against Thorin’s tan. 

“Drinkir da gift eron Mahal nar ardol mer ein,” The elder dwarf lifted a golden cup high above his head, speaking too quickly for Bilbo to discern the words he wasn’t capable of understanding. His voice was deep and grand- it rolled out into the large hall and up along the high walls, ghosting across the ceiling. 

He lowered the cup to Thorin, who accepted it with his free hand and then presented it to Bilbo. Bilbo waited until the gold rim touched his bottom lip, relaxed his mouth and swallowed around the strong, dry flavor of wine that washed over his tongue. Thorin pulled back slowly, pressing the cup to Bilbo’s hand. 

Bilbo slipped the stem between his fingers, his hand brushing lightly over Thorin’s. He mirrored Thorin’s gesture, held the cup to Thorin’s lips and waited patiently for the king to do his part. Thorin stared boldly as he drank, never taking his eyes away from Bilbo.

“Loyalty, honour, and a willing heart he shall give to his king, and so the king, too, shall bless it upon the,” The elder dwarf continued on in a mix of Khuzdul and the Common Tongue. Bilbo followed what he could, trying desperately to ignore the crowd gathered throughout the hall, “Mahal mer ayna anek vlak.”

“Nar ka var mer my yoran,” Thorin accentuated each heavy word with the binding of their arms, Bilbo’s elbow cradled carefully in his large hand. Bilbo wrapped his fingers as far as they could reach around Thorin’s bare forearm, unyielding as the stone beneath his feet. 

Bilbo regarded their connection with barely concealed amazement . Thorin’s skin was dark and decorated with the thick, blank ink of ancient runes- magnificent beside the pale, unmarked flesh of Bilbo’s arm. He traced the markings with his eyes, his thumb following his gaze subtly. He felt Thorin skin twitch under his ministrations and looked up quickly. 

The anticipation of a moment was lost in the sudden cry of delighted cheers and applause, reverberating all around them.

“Bilbo.”

“Thorin."


End file.
